A fat human is a delicious human, will feed Aurix for a good while...
Will get a post up in a bit.
Will get a post up in a bit.
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The Tired One
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Bukradul
Turn 0
There, on the beaches of these new lands, did the orcs of Bukradul land their boats, weaved together with trees commanded by the shamans who asked for the aid of nature to side with them. It had been months at sea, once they had numbered ten ships, now they only numbered a mere two, with the winds and the rough currents of the seas fighting them at every turn, claiming many for its own maw. The sea had been a foreign enemy to them, a foreign enemy that was quick to fell them when it had the opportunity despite the powerful connection to nature that the orcs had commanded. Yet, now they had escaped its clutches, the two ships beaching themselves and those more capable jumped onto the sands to scout out their landing, moving the start of a forest.
No threats could immediately be seen, giving a breath of relief for these orcs who merely wanted to rest and find some moniker of peace to bless them. Gradually, the women and the children came off of the ship, followed by many of the shamans who began to unravel the twisted trunks of the trees to begin making some rudimentary form of shelter for the entirety of the tribe's survivors. In the bowels of the largest ship, sat the form of Guthug the Damned, his light brown skin hunched over the carcass of deceased boar that had not survived the voyage to the new land.
A shaman approached him from behind, laying an old hand on the shoulder while leaning against his staff. "Grok was a good boar," the shaman commented, allowing a toothy smile to overtake the wrinkled face.
Guthug turned his head but did not look at the old shaman, his gaze moving back to the boar before bringing his arms around the boar and lifting Grok up, cradling it like a newborn. "Grok was the first beast to rally to our cause, and the last to die on this voyage," Guthug said solemnly, turning to finally look back at the shaman, who raised an eyebrow before reeling back and headbutting the grieving chieftain who nearly dropped the corpse of Grok.
"Are you challenging me, Uruk?" Guthug growled moving his hand cover the spot which Uruk had just struck.
Uruk let out a laugh, "No, but I have been called mad! Tell me, Guthug, are you so blind to the other animals that have helped us through this journey?"
Guthug snorted, before answering the shaman, "There are no other animals. They all died."
"Is that so? Then how come you see not the smallest of mice? Perhaps you truly are blind!" Uruk laughed, motioning to a small, brown mouse moving along the intertwined branches of the ship. Scurrying up the gnarled staff that the shaman held before taking the mouse in his hand. "Remember that even the smallest of creatures help. This mouse has brought plenty of seed for us to grow, for even he has more foresight than the mighty Guthug the Damned!"
Guthug huffed before moving past Uruk, continuing to cradle the body of Grok.
"Grok will serve as a friend in your death, unless you decide to push away nature itself that is," Uruk continued before a wall unfurled itself to serve as a window to the orcish people that moved away from the beach, fathers and sons laughing, mothers and daughters playing. The shaman wrapped his arm around the taller orc, speaking again, "Look away from the loss and see what we are gaining! You cannot be such a pragmatist forever!"
Guthug nodded before looking back down to Uruk, "Maybe you are right, Uruk. I have not seen these people this happy since we have left for this new place."
"Go! Go and get some of that happiness, boy!" Uruk laughed, bringing a light smile to the Damned. Though a sudden headbutt swiftly brought that smile down in annoyance, causing to walk away from the mad shaman.
As Guthug hopped off the side of the ship, he walked towards his people, those who noticed him ran up to him with happiness of finally being free of the ocean's embrace. As they saw the body of Grok, however, they were quick to embrace the chieftain and give a swift pet down the snout of the deceased boar, a last sign of comfort for the spirit of the boar before it departed into the heavens. The people helped to dig a grave for the boar, moving on to digging graves for the few animals that they needed not to throw overboard out of fear of rot and evil spirits. It was silent for the most part, as the people grieved with the chieftain before many attempted to bring his mood up through song and dance, and it worked.
They made merry into the night, the shamans calling for them to a swiftly crafted longhouse made from the same trees that had made the ships. The people continued to make merry and Guthug watched them from a dune, a soft smile across his face which grew as a group of children ran up to him.
"Chieftain Guthug," a small girl began, "What are going to call our new home?"
For a moment, Guthug thought to himself, running his hand across the stubble of his chin before he picked up the girl and hoisted her onto his shoulder, laughter following. With a mighty shout and thrust of his hand into the air the chieftain called out the name of their new blessed land, "Sumbad!"
Soon the other orcs began to follow, chanting the name of their new home.
Sumbad! Sumbad! Sumbad!
A collab with @Ruby
Satele Shan needed time. The schedule didn't allow her that time. Jace had a ship ready, but they had to move for reasons that owed to the greet logistics god of the Republic spaceways. It was a fickle god, but Satele understood Jace having to put it before her Jedi and their uninvited guest. She talked to herself aloud in the small office, talking about this old contact, that old lead, as she binged file after file, sealed record after sealed record, in her search for information. Jace just stared at her. The office was borrowed from another Master, a connection certified as secure so she could look.
Then, of course, Satele found it.
"She's the collector."
The words were sighed as she stood quickly from the desk chair, smoothing her robes out almost subconsciously. They were tight by design, made for not getting in her way just as much as they were some form of repressed expression from the lifelong Jedi. The shiny, velvet, blue of her robes over her midsection wasn't armored. It was just shiny fabric, and it bunched over her tummy if she didn't smooth it down after sitting in certain positions. Usually the product of bad posture. At least Jace knew to follow her, not she he was likely to let her out of his sight as they walked fast through the corridors of the Temple, Jedi getting out of their way as the two moved.
"We thought maybe they were a former Jedi, maybe even someone like Theron who started out in the Order as a youngling but was then removed. Maybe an Imperial agent, who knows how long they plotted t for fun. If it was for fun. And Je'daii items. Them especially, it would seem now."
She didn't knock on the door when she reached it through the maze of small corridors branching off the wider main ones where people tended to congregate; and people were gathering everywhere trying to gossip, steal what information they could, and report the coming and goings of people like satele. She just entered slowly and repressed the smile when she found San Anin with Brye. "Excuse us? I hear the Supreme Commander could use a guide to the nearest cup of coffee." Her Padawan would understand; so would Jace. This was a Jedi thing, San Anin's face seemed to Satele to sink at the sight of the Grand Master appearing within the door, but inevitably had a way with everyone.
Satele ensured the door shut after Brye left, the expression upon her face anything but unkind. "What happened?"
At first, San Anin was silent, shifting as her uncomfort grew and grew before she eventually began to speak in a soft, hesitant tone, “W-well, M-master Kyla and E-Elav took me t-to investigate the l-landing. The o-other padawan w-was there t-to.” She paused at the mention of the other padawan, lowering her head as her hand brushed over her breathing mask. “E-Elav d-died when those t-things came. T-the other padawan had already left, i-in the chaos, I gave into a-anger. I could f-feel the chaos of the planet, I-I could feel the s-sadness of m-my master. W-when we found the s-sith, I let m-my clouded m-mind get the b-better of me. I tried to k-kill her s-so her presence w-would kill anyone else.”
The padawan refused to look at the grandmaster, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor as her fingers interlocked and her thumbs played with each other.
“They aren’t a Sith.”
It was largely irrelevant to the purpose of the discussion at hand, but Satele felt it important to highlight the fact none-the-less. This one woman invader, this Selene, wasn’t Sith. It was important for many reasons, the least of which being acts of war. What would become of the woman? That, however…
“San Anin,” Satele’s voice came out changed, different: it was soft, it was warm, it was vulnerable. It was anything but the neutral tones that were interspaced with flashes of humor and care that made up her usual public tones. “We cannot know what is to become of this Selene. I know she will be put on a ship and sent to a prison made to hold even Force users. With any luck she will rot away in a hole, or come to the Jedi Order for redemption. It is possible that this woman will one day lead to the death of another Jedi.”
The more she spoke the more steel returned to her tone, until there was little left in her voice, and reflected in her eyes, of the seriousness with which she addressed the Padawan, “Make no mistake, San Anin, I cannot see this peace lasting. You will have plenty of time to use your lightsaber against Sith. War will come again, and maybe if you had killed this woman you might save other lives later on--or if you killed her you might deny the Force some useful purpose for her. We do not know. The Jedi way says you spare the woman, find what information you can, then deal with her...precisely what we are doing now.”
Satele made steps towards San Anin earlier, when her expression changed, but had now largely drifted. Eyes touching on various spots of the Padawan’s private quarters as she moved, almost as if she were restless. Maybe she was. Maybe she would be until the woman was off Tython and in a prison.
At the door Satele turned quickly on her right heel, sudden and smooth as a soldier’s facing movement, though it was accompanied with a rather casual little sigh. “Dust yourself off, Padawan. You can use this event in meditation for years to come. You’ll improve, you’ll get new realizations on why we Jedi err on the side of life whenever possible. They will be needed if war comes again and you find yourself forced to fight with people you never thought you would, or could.”
A live wire of a smile crossed Satele’s red lips in a flash, afterall, she had confidence in San Anin. “I wouldn’t expect any disciplinary action.” There, as Satele’s body leaned back into the door of the Padawan’s quarters, that smile lingered a moment longer so long as Satele kept her eyes on the Padawan. “Good luck, San Anin,” a farewell before Satele twisted her shoulders and slipped out of the door.
Now it was time to speak with the other Padawan that didn’t belong to her involved.
With Satele now gone, San Anin felt that she could finally breathe again. The padawan had been expecting much worse, finding that Brye had made her master seem far worse than she had led on. San Anin let out a sigh as she went on to clean her robes, she had a funeral to attend and she knew that she would not like it.
ATD-170a - Nar Shaddaa
A red optic, alongside the sound of metals servos and feet moving in a deliberate and efficient path, was the callsign of a droid, however, this was no mere security droid. Such a droid was beneath the cold, ruthless programming that made up the constantly thinking mind of ATD-170a. The reprogrammed imperial droid stood before its master, Khulbe the Hutt, who had summoned it from the rather mundane task of assigning battle droids to security sweeps around the many women the Hutt kept. The singular optic was firmly placed forward as the droid peered into the darkness that shrouded the Hutt, the rather angry Hutt.
“You have summoned me, Lord Khulbe?” The androgynous, robotic voice asked in Huttese as it mentally noted the anger that the Hutt seems to be baring on its face.
“I have a task for you,” Khulbe responded, pausing for a moment before continuing on, “I require you to go with Raideon to Coruscant to deal with a problem there, the necessary information will be sent to you. And be quiet about it, no one on Coruscant must know of your involvement.”
The droid remained unmoving as it heard of its new task, absolutely as giddy as its programming allowed it to be as the task would mean a likely step up in the hierarchy of the crime syndicate, no more petty security duty on a bunch of slaves. ATD-170a would have to hide a smile if it had facial features, luckily it did not otherwise it would have been more noticeable after each passing nanosecond as the mind of the droid calculated each possible avenue of expansion inside of the syndicate. However, there was one lingering curiosity on a mission.
ATD-170a’s voice rang out again, this time asking, “May I bring a squad of-“
“No battle droids,” the Hutt snapped, “This mission is low profile, do not fail me, or else you will be scrap.”
“Very well, Lord Khulbe,” ATD-170a said, turning to leave the presence of its master with a new determination that not even it realized that it carried. After all, such emotion was not programmed into the personality of a droid, since droids were to serve a singular purpose and carry out that one purpose as efficiently as possible. ATD-170a was no exception, however, pride and ambition was a common resurgence within its personality and it seemed that it had developed once more within the core of the tactical droid. Not that it was a bad thing, nor was it a very noticeable thing as the droid tended to keep those emotions buried beneath the cold exterior and the calculating thoughts that it would spout to the nearest organic that was within its service, not that many were.
However, the fact that the mandalorian was selected for the mission rather than ATD-170a alone provoked a small glitch of jealousy, a jealousy that made Raideon seem to be more of a political rival within the syndicate. ATD-170a would need to find a way to dispose of such a rival, preferably without the use of blasters as that introduced a seventy-eight percent decrease in chances of success. The best route to such a goal would likely be sabotage to make the droid seem far more competent than the likes of the mandolorian, and it had already devised a plan with a ninety-six percent success rate, pending new information about the mission. However, it doubted that such information would prove to drastically change the margin of success within the droid’s parameters, though it would need to avoid a memory wipe at all costs to maintain the plan as well.
Once it succeeded, it calculated a rapid rise through the ranks and soon enough, it would be able to rule over a large portion of the syndicate. An evil smile would have gone across ATD-170a’s face, knowing that it would be able to perform this mission flawlessly while being able to carry out its own nefarious schemes to become Khulbe’s right hand. Such a rise was inevitable, but it seemed that this task would only accelerate that rise.
Eventually, the droid made its way through the halls of Khulbe’s palace to find itself in a hanger, buzzing with the normal activity that it anticipated. ATD-170a took a moment to further scheme, the nanoseconds passing slowly as it did, only wanting to perfect the plan to sabotage the mandolorian’s reputation with its master.
>primary objective updated: sabotage the mandolorian.
>failsafe objective updated: kill the mandolorian.
@Blitzy@Famotill@Enzayne@Rtron@Rhiven Knight
IC post up! It's a bit smaller than I intended, but I felt that if I continued, it would just be repetitive.
IC post up! It's a bit smaller than I intended, but I felt that if I continued, it would just be repetitive.
The spectre seemed all but fazed by the words of those who spoke to it, merely letting out a disappointed sigh to the group who seemed fixated on resisting him. The skeletal hand lowered the noose. The illusion of the body disappearing before the hooded head looked to the more outspoken of the group, only darkness and dread being able to be determined inside of the hood. The dread inside the hood, made that instilled fear in the men increase to dizzying proportions, a fear almost made as solid as the grip of a blade or the oak of a door.
“If ye not hear warnings true,
Then ye will end blue.
I am no Hanged Man.
I am no living man.
Ye speaketh with Death true.”
The figure looked between the dwarf, taran, and the elf almost casting an insidious gaze at it hunched over in the normal visage of an older man. He let out clicks and sounds of indiscernible whispers came from his form, all different voices, but all of those who had been lost to those in the room. With a silent motion, the hooded spectre moved to the body of the man and reaching a withered hand into the body, phasing through flesh and bone before pulling out a faintly white light. In a swift movement, it shoved the light into the blackened void of its hood, engulfing its light with an inescapable blackness.
“If ye seeketh the Hanged Man,
I shall feast of souls plenty.
Yet, ye destiny betrays thee,
No remorse received from me.”
The cryptic figure wandered over to the orcish body and did the same process with the light inside of that butler. Only then did the posture of the demonic being straighten once more, facing the group and holding aloft the noose again, only offering one last cryptic message.
“Fall towards the sky,
Meet the ally,
Trust not grandeur and spy,
Find the truth.”
In the blink of an eye, the being vanish with the candles of the room mysteriously being relit and the symbols of the Maker being unbroken and put back into place, albeit upside down. The only thing that remained the same within the room were the two corpses and the curtains which remained open, alongside the palpable fear that lingered within the room. The temperature of the room felt cold after the visage left, no warm embrace being left for those who continued to sit within the room. The silence hung, merely waiting for someone to cut through it.
Who would be the first to speak after such an encounter?
What had the visage meant?
Was the party damned to death?
“If ye not hear warnings true,
Then ye will end blue.
I am no Hanged Man.
I am no living man.
Ye speaketh with Death true.”
The figure looked between the dwarf, taran, and the elf almost casting an insidious gaze at it hunched over in the normal visage of an older man. He let out clicks and sounds of indiscernible whispers came from his form, all different voices, but all of those who had been lost to those in the room. With a silent motion, the hooded spectre moved to the body of the man and reaching a withered hand into the body, phasing through flesh and bone before pulling out a faintly white light. In a swift movement, it shoved the light into the blackened void of its hood, engulfing its light with an inescapable blackness.
“If ye seeketh the Hanged Man,
I shall feast of souls plenty.
Yet, ye destiny betrays thee,
No remorse received from me.”
The cryptic figure wandered over to the orcish body and did the same process with the light inside of that butler. Only then did the posture of the demonic being straighten once more, facing the group and holding aloft the noose again, only offering one last cryptic message.
“Fall towards the sky,
Meet the ally,
Trust not grandeur and spy,
Find the truth.”
In the blink of an eye, the being vanish with the candles of the room mysteriously being relit and the symbols of the Maker being unbroken and put back into place, albeit upside down. The only thing that remained the same within the room were the two corpses and the curtains which remained open, alongside the palpable fear that lingered within the room. The temperature of the room felt cold after the visage left, no warm embrace being left for those who continued to sit within the room. The silence hung, merely waiting for someone to cut through it.
Who would be the first to speak after such an encounter?
What had the visage meant?
Was the party damned to death?
Alrighty! I’ll have the post ready by tomorrow!
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